The Wind

A poem by Whit, inspired by the movie Final Destination


By: Whit

Rushing, slipping through the air

blowing leave across the room

Choosing with the utmost care

Styles of impending doom.

Whispering blurry, past my sight

a shadow in the peripheral.

Closing eyes, pulses jump

figures in my silhouette.


Dark conglomeration curdling like a scream

stuck within my throat.

A dying need upon your feet

a stipulation that must be read.


Steps away, it’s skipped my turn

taking flight upon your grave.

Burrowing deeper inside the marrow

bones wrenching throughout your joints

Tendons and ligaments torn through a pain.


Lightning flashes, skidding through these dreams

a washed down gray ridden morning

Dawn failing to dispel the mist

Journey back to time before time

click rewind and pause, no cause for this.


The clock still jumps ahead

and your dreamscapes still turn in mind

Engulfed by bitterness, swept along a course of rage

Ice drops glistening, flailiA ting downward a spiral called life


Staring past unblinking eyes, profusion of though and enveloping emotives.

Careening crossly, shameful cruelty it swirls around my being

Crass ambiguity slow as molasses in the heat of day

Frame by frame a picture forms

and like a summer storm, rashly skitters away

from the light of truth dawning upon you


Shimmies, shivers up my spine, tingling lightly on

pressed to my scalp

A tickle in my ear, frightened tears gleaming

shadowing my eyes.


Slickly caressing across my skin, swirling around

it’s eternity, light and darkness, sporadic occurences

with each goal and destination it’s firmly mapped out.

Every sweet breath and sight leading somewhere

beyond the reach it always catches each it’s lost.

One Chance

By Whit

Rushing up
Running to the darkness

Meet me there
See my scars
See my bitter bleeding heart
And give me one more start

Show me hope
Show me love
Show me just how good life can be
And give me a new start

I want to live2017-07-23 19_53_15-Whitney L Morgan
See it all
Experience life
Please God
Give me a new start

Pierce my soul
See my secrets
And love me anyways

Just give me.




By Whit

And on the edge of my sanity
It all comes back to me
In the semi-conscious state of mind
between wake and sleep.

The memories rushing in
clear and hazy, defined and distorted all at once
Threatening to take hold and never let go.

I toss and turn, punch and kick,
whimper and silently scream
fighting myself.

Taste of fear and blood and violence
the feel of smooth betrayal done
on the semi-conscious.

I hear the soft click of a lock
hushed malevolent whispers
I hear rumbling laughter at my expense.

Oblivion sets in for a spell
then I hear them again before unconsciousness
steals my reactions from me.

I wake from my drug induced sleep
take in fully my naked vulnerability
The voice of a friend, A FRIEND, who is the leader
in this crime against my body.

No oblivion comes to hinder
my possible fight to protect and preserve
I turn my head and find again my voice.

A throat parched with horror croaks out
a trying scream
Male laughter mixed with confusion.

A deep breath, I scream
with all the might of desperation
All I know is the scream.

Strangers pour into the room
my girlfriend comes and runs them off
She picks me up and dresses me.

I’m late getting home, find my knife,
I’ll kill them myself

Cut off from all emotional acknowledgement
in my waking hours
I build the walls around the nightmare.

There is no denying what it is,
what I feel, semi-conscious
In the time between wake and sleep.

Hurt, shame, betrayal, rage, and suffering
all aimed at myself
But I felt no pity.

Heart clutching fear, seeing my friend
on the street, at the fair
Ice cold panic courses my veins.



Image from:

My Room

By Whit

In the solitude of my small room

I read and write and dream of tomorrow.

I lock out the world of cruel reality

and fantasize of better or worse happenstance.

In my inconsequential room

I am free from society

free of insecurity and belittling.

I am free to listen to the music that I wish to hear

And can talk to friends and loves

who exist only in my writing




I can express myself even if it makes no sense.


I can live and experience greater things in the freedom,


the solitude of my room, with child-like imagination.


Though I go out to reality and socialize, go with life;

I do my living in my room.

Dear Lord

Dear Lord,

Stop the pain.  Please.

By Whitney

Dear Lord,

Stop the pain. Please?! Stop the murderous rage coursing through my veins.

Stop the tears, the dry tears running down my pale cheeks.

Nobody can see.

My body is shaking, craving a cure bigger and better than cancerous nicotine.

My mind is tumorous, crazy, needing more than just illegal drugs.

Nobody can tell.

Dear Lord,

The pressures and demands, the stress and problems, all unload onto me.

Can no one see my shoulders are no longer as broad?

I can’t take on the world.

When once strong, I am now weaker than the weakest being alive.

When once I had all the answers , now in their place questions are all I find.

Solving them is no longer an opportunity, it went in his moment of lust.

Dear Lord,

Can no one see I just need to be left along?

I’m more lonely in a crowd than locked in my room…by myself…


Dear Lord,

You all say everything will be fine, I just need some help.


But no one can.

How can you support me if you don’t understand me?

Can’t look into my soul and tell what you see.

How could you see my soul when it’s unclear to even me,

hazy misty fog.

Does anyone even truly see as far as my heart?

is there one left?

It’s been torn and ripped apart so much that if I have one, it is surely pale as scars.

Dear Lord,

Is there a meaning to my life besides being a toy to be crushed in the of men?

Countless nameless cruelties done to me which return to terrorize my dreams.

Is there ever a decent nights sleep, more beyond a tireless few hours?

How I yearn for a peaceful eight hour nights sleep filled with child-like fantasy.

How i wish for this deeply ingrained terror to leave me be.

Who knows when I’ll wake up with a knife in my hand again?

I fear my sleep for to sleep long and deep meant to flashback and die all over again.

Slow and painful death each time I remember, each nightmare revisited.

Dear Lord,

Stop the pain. Please.

2017-07-23 18_48_39-(2) Whitney L Morgan

A Doves Cry

Hey loves, after the lightheartedness of my Bio and the rough brashness of my introduction post, I thought it would be good to show you some soft sorrow. A small tug on your hearts to ease you into my soul. The accompanying picture I captured over at my mom’s house two weekends ago and I felt it would highlight this poem of mine form 1999 nicely.



By: Whit

A doves cry on a lonely night,

a doves heartbreak to mend the plight.

Weeping earnestly to find

the salve for the wounds of mankind.20170618_190302

Where once love had reigned

all empowered and victorious

Now all that is left is a

tortured body from materialism.

And a doves cry rings out

deeply into the lonely night

For the battered remains of

a garden pure.

Bloody Fucking Hell


It’s Monday…

if the title didn’t clue you in…I curse…a lot. I use “Fuck” not just like it’s a conjunction, verb, adverb, or adjective…I use “Fuck” like it’s a bloody fucking comma. I’m honestly a little in love with that fucking word. I pepper it throughout my speech and writings. Even a lot of my poetry.

If you’re not comfortable with cursing you likely are not going to like 50% of my posts, and I’m ok with that. This blog will not be for everyone. Despite our cute little about me pages, Jenn and I are pretty dark and gritty people, and this blog is going to be the relief valve for our darkness. We’re drowning in it, showering ourselves in it’s gripping hedonistic blood like Carrie at the prom.

I’m not resigned to the darkness that lives inside, I’m not just accepting of it. I understand it, I seek it out and pay it attention, I relish in it. One thing you should know is that I don’t identify as goth or emo, or whatever the fuck else we’re calling moody all black wearing angsty teens these days.

I’ve had a few anniversaries of my 29th birthday. I wear colors. I smile, I joke around; I listen to bubble gum pop (and country, classic rock, alt rock, hard rock, folk, jazz, blues, etc), watch chick flicks (and action, drama, thriller, comedy, and documentaries). I work in Corporate America and I LOVE it. Most people who casually know me would never think of me as goth/emo.

Yet, I love the darkness inside. The scars I carry continue to teach me lessons, continue to show me my weaknesses, continue to show me how strong I have become. They help me to know that I can survive anything because they are living fucking proof of all the hells I have already survived.

I suffer from PTSD. I have lived through a lot of tragedy, dealt and been dealt a lot of fucking pain. Some days it is nothing more than a story. Most of the time, to most of the audiences I have…it is nothing more than a fucked up story. Ninety-nine percent of the time it’s a story I brag about. Because I’m that kind of fucked up. Some days though, some days my soul is crushed under the weight of that story.

I have always been creative. I have always been inspired by pain and misery. I have always been a writer. Ever since I first learned to take pen to paper. My mom still has the cutesy things I wrote as a child. Twelve years ago started a series of chapters in my story that sucked the creativity out of my soul.

Fast forward to last Friday. When Jenni wrote some awesome dark bloody fucking poems that spoke to me and unleashed a longing in my soul to write again. She was in a similar spot, having her own share of darkness and tragedy. We have very different stories, with very similar outcomes. So a long phone call later, we are creating this blog, a Facebook page, typing out and scheduling our first weeks worth of posts and planning the first month.

Some of my content will be new, some will be the remnants of my past; it will be dark and brooding, bloody and messy, bright and cheerful, sweet and loving, goofy and whimsical, dirty and sexy. It will be me.

And in true me fashion, I hope I slip and slide against your skin, pour into your eyes, snake my way inside and spark a fever in your heart. Check back in a couple hours for my first touch on your soul. Will it be a gentle caress? A hungry kiss? A teasing bite or a hard slap?